HeartShaped Music Box
by kasviel
Summary: A songfic detailing several scenes from all three of my Holmes stories. Just an extra little look back at the characters and sentiments.


**Author's Notes**

This is a little extra collection of scenes from my three stories, set to music. I am a music freak, so I always feel incomplete without throwing in _some _kind of song lyrics. My taste in music has been deemed questionable, and it is all over the place, but I tried to throw in songs that captured sentiments of scenes and characters. It's just a little extra look back at my favorite parts, and what I think of the characters, really. The songs are all in my library over at (I'm user "kasviel"), and I made a playlist of these songs there, as well, in case you're curious to hear any of them. Hey, I'm sentimental, I just _had _to get some songfic into my "Holmes" stories somewhere ;-)

As to the last song, I know Watson did not know Mary in childhood, but since she was his childhood dream-wife, I still found the lyrics appropriate. Really lovely song, even if I find it heartbreakingly sad, one of my favorites. I think of it as summing up Sherlock's defeat, his letting go of Watson (kind of). Why is there so much Leona Lewis? She's the most romantic singer out there, I think, and I love her music, I love her voice. I've been listening to her new album a lot lately (obviously). I had to get an Evanescence track in there, that band will _never be over_ for me! I think Beyonce's "Halo" is perfect for the good times these two have had, and "Never Too Late" I always associate with suicidal, messed up lovers (I used it in my "Condemned" fan fic as the theme). Lady Gaga is brilliant, I thought it would be fun to use "Bad Romance" as a lighthearted little theme, especially since Sherlock is always teasing Watson for being a romantic. I had to get "Iris" and "Sober" in. And, Irene Adler may love being a lady, but I thought "If I Were A Boy" suits her, since it was so unfashionable for a woman to be strong-minded and independent in the Victorian era, and she has the notion that men are mostly talent-wasting fools (excepting Sherlock). It was hard to think of a theme for Mary and Watson, let me tell you, since I have a snide belief that their "love" is a farce, but I managed, and look, I even gave them a very nice Leona Lewis track! The breakup is funny, because I used two songs for it, one laid back and wistful, the other ("Lost Then Found") bittersweet but hopeful. I think the latter captures Holmes' thoughts for the duration of the film, his incessant tries to bring Watson back. Ah, too bad it didn't work!

Enough of my rambling. You can ignore this completely, of course, as it's only a rehash of scenes in songfic format. I published it as a separate story because it spoils all the previous three stories, and it is it's own thing. Please do read the other stories first, though, because this does cover the entire series. Thanks, and, with that, I am done! For now ...

* * *

**01**

**Leona Lewis, "Happy" (Theme of Sherlock Holmes)**

_Someone once told me that you have to choose  
What you win or lose  
You can't have everything_

"Well, that's _fine_!" Watson seethed. "Just fine, Mr. Holmes!"

Before his fury turned violent, Watson decided to go. He put his hat on, and turned to exit the stifling lab. He was in such a huff that it took him until the stairwell to realize that he was being followed. He whirled around, and there was Holmes, alone. Stamford had not followed.

"What do you want?" Watson growled. "Came to have more fun with your carny tricks?"

"They are not tricks," Holmes repeated angrily. However, his manner seemed a touch less abrasive, almost contrite. "And I meant no insult," he added briskly. "I have a way for discerning the truth, and I make no excuses for it, nor do I hide it behind polite lies and ignorance."

Watson moved to keep going, but Holmes gripped his sleeve. Watson glanced down at his hand. There was that gesture again. It was eager the first time, and now it was pleading. He looked at the man curiously. What on earth was he about?

_Don't you take chances  
You might feel the pain  
Don't you love in vain  
'cause love won't set you free_

"Needless to say, I am not a popular fixture in these genteel times," Sherlock admitted, and there was just a dash of bitterness in his tone. "So," he moved quickly on, "I am still in need of a roommate."

"Well, it won't be me," Watson said, tugging his sleeve out of the man's hand. "Good day to you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock blinked at the curt, almost sarcastic, parting. He thought of the manic loneliness that had crushed him just the other day, the cause of his outburst in front of the staff. He also thought of the owner of the building where he currently stayed threatening him with jail if he did not cease his experiments.

_I can't stand by the side  
And watch this life pass me by  
So unhappy  
But safe as could be_

"Now, now, wait! Look!" he protested, following Watson down the stairs. "You might not have liked the things I said, but I've said them. It's over and done with. We know one another. Why not take the rooms together, then?"

"_I _know nothing about _you_, other than the fact that you are an arrogant, belligerent, uncouth man with no respect for your fellows!" Watson told him as he hurried his pace down the stairwell. "But believe me, that is enough!"

"You are a man of science!" Holmes bellowed as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "How can you be so sensitive to facts!"

"Sensitive!" Watson whipped around to face him. "You think I was sensitive to your words about me? Do you!"

Holmes backed away as Watson came towards him, his walking stick pointed at Holmes' face.

"I care nothing about your words! Hell, they were true ones," Watson said. He backed Sherlock into a wall, and tipped the walking stick at his eyes. "It was the way you sensationalized the whole thing, the smugness of your assessment. You enjoy putting others to shame, and that is no kind of man to associate with, let alone room with!"

Holmes looked sullen. The irony of his own sensitivity to words struck him, and he frowned darkly. Yes, cold facts could hurt . . . They could hurt more than anything. Damn this Watson for throwing his own argument back at him like that!

_So what if it hurts me?  
So what it I break down?  
So what if this world just throws me off the edge,  
My feet run out of ground  
I gotta find my place  
I wanna hear my sound  
Don't care about all the pain in front of me  
I just trying to be happy  
I just wanna be happy_

"But you're a bright one. You already know that." Watson twirled the stick, set the bottom on the ground again. "You simply do not care, and so long as you do not, you will not find a soul in this world to share their home with you."

Sherlock looked up at him, and Watson was stricken by his misery. His eyes glinted-- Tears? He had the appearance of a guilty child. Now, how could one so shrewd have such a sense of innocence about him? Had he truly . . . not fully grasped the weight of his words? Watson wavered against that look, feeling his doctor's compassion start to seep through the cracks in his outrage.

_Holding on tightly  
Just can't let go  
Just trying to play my role  
Slowly disappear_

"I spoke candidly with you, because I thought you might be a person I could respect," Sherlock said, stubborn in his lack of apology. "You are a doctor, and a man of the military: one who has seen his share of death. And, Dr. Watson, I ask you, where is there more truth to be found than in death?"

Watson crossed his arms, though he did not move to walk away yet. He did note the lack of apology, however, and it galled him still. He was suddenly reminded of his own father holding this position, and felt a strange sense of being a paternal figure to a very strange and disobedient child. The thought amused him.

"Oh ho ho, you are a clever one, Holmes, very clever," chuckled Watson, shaking his head. "Yes, you did quite well to turn this all around and make it sound as if I am simply not astute enough to appreciate your honesty."

Sherlock drew a breath, his lips tightening into a thin line. Damn! How did this simpleton see so clearly through him? He gave no sign of great intelligence or logical thinking. How was he able to do it, then? Worldliness? Was he savvy, or was he actually astute?

_But all these days  
They feel like they're they're same  
Just different faces  
Different place  
Get me out of here_

"I appreciate honesty, but not with sadistic relish, or smug delight," Watson said. "You attacked me tactlessly, admit it."

"I--"

"Ah!"

"--may have gotten carried away," Holmes admitted, though he lifted his face impertinently.

"Very good."

Sherlock twitched. How dare this fool patronize him! What did he think, that Holmes was a child? He was, in brain capacity, quite possibly the oldest, wisest man in the world, and here this one was--

Watson pointed the top of his walking stick at Holmes again. "Now apologize."

This was too much.

"WHAT!"

"You can admit your wrongfulness, but you cannot apologize?" Watson observed dryly. "Then, I have been wasting my time prolonging our discussion."

_I can't stand by the side  
Ooh, no  
And watch this life pass me by  
Pass me by_

Sherlock knew he was being manipulated as Watson turned yet again and began to walk away. He also knew this roommate would be a difficult one to have. For whatever reason, Watson was hardly impressed, even though he did seem to accept Sherlock's superior intelligence. He was everything Sherlock was not: respectful, rigidly moral, considerate. They would clash, most likely more violently than this. However, the challenge this man presented was interesting, and now he wanted to room with him more than ever.

"Wait, Dr. Watson, wait," Sherlock said, trotting up after him. "Wait one moment!"

Watson kept walking, though he frowned. Holmes was a persistent one. He quickened his pace, moving quite ahead of the man. He heard Holmes' footsteps stop behind him. Had he given up?

"I apologize."

_So what if it hurts me?  
So what if I break down?  
So what if this world just throws me off the edge?  
My feet run out of ground  
I gotta find my place  
I wanna hear my sound  
Don't care about all the pain in front of me  
I'm just trying to be happy_

**02**

**Evanescence, "Away From Me"**

Watson took Sherlock by the front of his shirt and pulled him over the table. He sat the man on the edge of it, not once breaking the kiss, and embraced him. Sherlock was shaking violently now, and he seemed almost shy in the kiss.

_That childishness_, Watson noted. He drew out of the kiss, looking down at the man, running a hand through his dark, uncombed hair. "You are not very comfortable with me, are you?"

Sherlock looked nowhere, eyes dazed. "I am not very comfortable with anyone, actually."

_I hold my breath as this life starts to take its toll  
I hide behind a smile as this perfect plan unfolds  
But oh, God, I feel I've been lied to  
Lost all faith in the things I have achieved  
And I_

"Are you--"

"No!" Sherlock grimaced at the tellingly defensive shout. "No," he repeated more softly, "if anything, for scientific purposes--"

"Scientific purposes!" Watson echoed in amazement.

Sherlock turned red. "Sex is often a factor in crime. I had to try it, didn't I?"

"But did you _want _to?"

"Honestly, I don't want to do anything but work," Sherlock said, turning his face. "My mind needs to be stimulated, not my body."

Watson ran his hands beneath Holmes' shirt, dancing his fingers up the man's spine. "Mmm, are you sure about that, love?"

"W-well, physical reaction of an average healthy male is—Ahhh, to be expect-expected," huffed the detective. He bowed his head against Watson's shoulder, breathing heavily, shaking. "What did you call me?"

"You never miss a word, Holmes, don't act coy."

Sherlock turned his face, gave him a weary smile. "Watson--"

_I've woken now to find myself  
In the shadows of all I have created  
I'm longing to be lost in you  
(away from this place I have made)  
Won't you take me away from me_

"Now, but you haven't slept all night, have you?" Watson asked gently, soothing a hand over Holmes' face. He could tell the man had reservations, and did not want to seduce him, especially having so many reservations of his own.

"Yes, you see, the work, which you have distracted me from, is--"

"That is quite enough of that," Watson said sternly. "You need rest."

"No, I do not, Watson, I-- Watson!"

Watson picked him up off the table, carrying him in his arms like a child. His shoulder went sore, but it was not unbearable. Besides, the pain was worth the mortified look on Holmes' handsome face.

Sherlock eyed the shoulder. He was tempted to lean his weight in such a way that it would cause Watson to drop him in agony, but he refrained. After all, he was starting to feel fatigue set in, and his mind was still reeling from the kiss. How could something predicted feel so unexpected? How did it still carry that much shock?

_Crawling through this world as disease flows through my veins  
I look into myself, but my own heart has been changed  
I can't go on like this  
I loathe all I've become_

The man was still in moody turmoil when Watson tossed him onto his bed. "Get some rest," the doctor ordered. His face softened a touch, and he put a hand against the man's cheek.

Holmes stared at him, and despite his anxiety, he felt a profound sense of loss. He reached out, took Watson by the sleeve. "Doctor--"

Watson stopped, locked eyes with Holmes. That gesture, full of need and yet somehow commanding-- It had made his heart skip a beat that first day, and it warmed him over now. _I want to care for him, _the man thought. _Not as a friend. I feel much more strongly for him than that. Damn the perversity of it! But I can't deny it, and why should I? Why should I? There is no wife in my future, no home full of children. Might I not at least find some love with this one? Am I not entitled at least to that? God help me, but let me have this one pleasureful sin._

_Lost in a dying world I reach for something more  
I have grown so weary of this lie I live_

Watson sat on the edge of the bed, sighing softly. He touched Sherlock's face, wondering how a man's face, even one so handsome, could hold him captive this way. Their lips met before Watson even realized he had moved forward, and they kissed deeply, slowly.

Sherlock eased into the kiss this time, allowing the haze of physical pleasure to finally cloud his incomparable mind. Though, of course, he could never shut off the stream of data completely. _His hand surrounds my wrist, sign of a dominant type that borders on being aggressive; further aggression in his kiss easily cements him as a borderline sadistic dominant. There is a lot of frustration in him, likely due to his unresolved and aimless life, the remnants of violent impulse left behind by the battlefield, and the repressive nature of modern times. _

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a short gasp, as Watson's hands wandered his body. The man was undressing him in sure, brisk motions, touching his lips to Holmes' fair flesh along the way. At moments when Holmes would give a shudder, his manner became gentler, reassuring. He was quite intuitive, Sherlock observed, and he was surprised that even a cynical man like himself found the comfort sincere and soothing.

_I've woken now to find myself  
In the shadows of all I have created  
I'm longing to be lost in you_

He was laid back, and stared up at the doctor for a moment. Watson knelt over him, reluctantly removing his hands from his new conquest to start undressing himself. He had not yet even removed his jacket! Though there was still some reserve in his eyes, he gave Sherlock a heartening smile, and leaned down to kiss his lips quickly as he unfastened his suspenders, then trousers.

Sherlock became a little curious, and playful. He began helping Watson undress, testing what pressure on which part of the body aroused him. A smile dawned on his face, giving him a completely roguish look. He reached out and pulled himself up into the man's arms, buried his face in his now bared chest. Abandon seized him at last, and he found himself licking and biting, simply _enjoying _his partner, all the while his mind ticking away preferences and observations.

_Thin from illness, but not feeble; he will be quite strapping once he fully recovers himself. Ah, there, touching him right in that particular spot below the-- _

Sherlock was interrupted by his own reactions then; "Ahhh . . . Ohh!"

_--very much arouses him. And--_

_His eyes are quite lovely. Very blue, but not sparsely lashed. The lids sweep down slightly when he is concentrating, but they take no hesitance in meeting you fully with that piercing gaze, full of both compassion and severity._

_And that mustache is rather fetching._

Holmes leaned his face into Watson's neck, shutting his eyes. His mind was slipping. His pride always hated that moment when rational thought jumbled and he became as thoughtless as the rest of the world. The observations registered still, but almost subconsciously.

"I hate, I hate being unable to think," he mumbled a groan as he clung to Watson.

"Do you not think," Watson huffed, kissing his cheek on the interval, "that the most important fact to be aware of is when to stop thinking?"

Holmes considered this. Watson chuckled at him, kissing his lips fully before turning him over onto his stomach. "Dear Holmes, if there is one lesson you have yet to learn--" He gave the man's bottom a light pinch. "--it is that man is much more than reason alone."

_I have woken now to find myself  
I'm lost in shadows of my own  
I'm longing to be lost in you_

Away from me. 

Sherlock was blushing fiercely when he glanced over his shoulder at Watson. "Apparently so," he admitted. With a bit of a smirk, he leaned his face on one hand, and said, "Tell me, Dr. Watson, how many other men have you been with before myself?"

Watson did not let the remark annoy him, as he knew that would be what Holmes wanted. "Two," he replied calmly, slapping his hands onto Holmes' buttocks and then squeezing him. He leaned over him, feeling the other man shudder as he neared entering him. "As Mr. Poe so eloquently put it, perversity calls."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but it ended up being merely a startled cry. He heard Watson chuckle. It irked him momentarily, but he was not exactly about to sulk over it at this particular moment. The sorely mutilated citation of Edgar Allen Poe would simply have to stand.

"_We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnameable feeling. … It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it."_

_Edgar Allen Poe, "The Imp of the Perverse"_

**03**

**Three Days Grace, "Never Too Late"**

_This world will never be  
What I expected  
And if I don't belong  
Who would have guessed it_

Watson stood over Holmes, crossed his arms. "And what is it today, hm?" he asked curtly. "Cocaine or heroine?"

"Cocaine. My seven percent solution."

Watson shut his eyes, trying to contain himself. This 'solution' of Holmes' was seven percent cocaine diluted in water. The percentage tended to double, sometimes triple, however, as Sherlock would often take several doses throughout a single day.

_I will not leave alone  
Everything that I own  
To make you feel like it's not too late  
It's never too late_

"Obviously, you came here to argue your medical objections to the practice, but I advise you not to bother," Sherlock said, his eyes whisking over to Watson's face. "I have had no ill effects from the substance. In fact, it provides a clarity beyond even my usual, and enhances my focus. As for the rest of my body's reaction, it is mild at worst, much less debilitating than the effects of alcohol."

"And the long term?"

Sherlock paused for a second. "Yes, it may cause a negative reaction due to the build up over the years, but--"

"You would risk that?" Watson interrupted, kneeling down to put his face level with Sherlock's. "You would risk damage to your mind, of which you are so proud?"

Watson tapped Sherlock's forehead, and Holmes hit his hand away. His face darkened, and Watson drew a breath. _Oh no, he's going to sulk again._

"What does a boringly stupid world need with my mind, anyway?" Sherlock asked dryly. "My existence is a jest, almost logical proof in itself of a malicious Creator with a malignant design."

"Holmes!"

_Even if I say  
It'll be alright  
Still I hear you say  
You want to end your life_

"The most valuable mind, yes, and the most useless," Sherlock went on, speaking in that fast but quiet tone he used when excited. "Scotland Yard believes I play at alchemy when I present them my hemoglobin test. Alchemy! What good is a mind like mine in a world like this, I ask you?"

Watson opened his mouth to speak, closed it. He had to admit that Holmes had a point. Still, after some thought, Watson decided it remained too large a leap to go from dissatisfaction to self-destruction. He was about to tell Sherlock so, but the embittered man suddenly went on.

"And I could accept that, all of it," he said, "were it not for the criminals."

Watson stared at him. "The criminals?"

"Yes!" Holmes said. "Yes, Watson, the criminals. Why do _they _have to be as accursedly idiotic as the police?"

Watson just stared at him, astounded by the selfishness of such a statement. As a doctor, he had seen much human suffering caused by crime and villainy-- How dare this man wish only for crime to be more interesting to satisfy his petty career?

"I am sorry that that offends your humanitarian sensitivities, doctor," Sherlock said, "but people do indeed die and suffer in this world. So long as they do, could they not simply do it in a more intellectually fascinating way?"

"Holmes, Holmes--" Watson muttered, shaking his head. He got to his feet, running his hands over his hair, face. He groaned, "Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, you are the most cold-hearted, ego-maniacal, incorrigible devil I have ever met!"

"I'm sure I am," Holmes said, completely unconcerned as he reached a pale hand for his pipe. "However, you do see my point, don't you, doctor?"

"Confound it, no! I do not see your point!"

_Now and again we try  
To just stay alive  
Maybe we'll turn it all around  
'Cause it's not too late  
It's never too late_

The booming shout stopped Holmes' hand in mid-reach. He redirected the hand towards the syringe. Watson stormed over to him, hit it back.

"No, no, don't you dare!" he snapped. He took Sherlock by the front of his shirt and lifted him into a sitting position on the sofa. "I do not see your point, because I have seen death--"

"Well, so have I, you know."

"You see nothing!" Watson raged at him, shaking the smaller man. "Nothing! You are automata! You see factors, problems, habits, features, markings-- not _people_, Holmes!"

Sherlock frowned.

_No one will ever see  
This side reflected  
And if there's something wrong  
Who would have guessed it_

"Well, I _have _seen people, and seen them die!" Watson continued, holding the man by the shoulders. "No matter how simple or elaborate the method might be, the result is ugly. So forgive me for not finding the appeal in more elaborate crime, Sherlock, but I can't see how any human being could find such atrocities exciting."

Sherlock had been accused of being a machine before, but never by a lover. His brow furrowed more, as he stared at Watson in puzzlement. All the questions his pride would not let him voice burned through his eyes, and he felt them lightly mist over. _How can you say I am a machine? Haven't you felt me in your arms? Haven't you squeezed my hand when I embrace you? Am I not warm, flesh and blood, as any other man is? How can you say that to me?_

"Perhaps if you let yourself be moved by feeling in addition to data, you would not need this." Watson gestured at the cocaine bottle. He sensed the deep hurt in Sherlock's eyes, and stroked the side of his face gently. "Sherlock, I . . . I hate to shout at you. I only . . . I care for you, Holmes." He kissed Sherlock's forehead, smelling faintly dried sweat and the natural grime of unwashed skin. "And I fear for you."

_And I have left alone  
Everything that I own  
To make you feel like  
It's not too late  
It's never too late_

"There is no need, doctor," Sherlock insisted, his pride bristling at having an inferior intellect worry about him despite how the concern warmed his heart. He moved back from Watson's grasp, waved a hand. "My actions are thoroughly researched choices. When I say I know what I am doing, I say it as one of the very, very few in the world to which that statement stands true. Believe me, there is nothing you can tell me that I do not know."

"Then, your callousness is a choice?"

"Does the police officer mourn every victim he comes across?" Sherlock pointed out. "It is _work_, Watson. If I could not be emotionally detached from my work, I would probably go mad, as you have gone half after the war."

Watson stiffened at the unexpectedly insulting words. He met Holmes' eyes, and his own went cold. "Exactly what do you mean by that?"

"Don't question such obvious logic, it's beneath you," chided Sherlock. When Watson only continued his steely gaze, Sherlock sighed, and explained, "Quite evident from your failure to return to medical practice, the occasional screaming nightmares, and your aversion to my crime stories (don't think I never notice the cringe in you). You ration out your pension for a living, allowing yourself only the obscure dream of winning a gambler's fortune. Summation: you have developed an acute aversion to human suffering that forces you to shelter yourself from even the demands of your profession."

Watson stood, pacing, hands pressed together at the palms and poised in front of his mouth.

_Even if I say  
It'll be alright  
Still I hear you say  
You want to end your life  
Now and again we try  
To just stay alive  
Maybe we'll turn it all around  
'Cause it's not too late  
It's never too late_

"Your perception of how sympathetic a person should be has been drastically skewed by the war, Watson," Sherlock went on. "You can't expect me to live by it."

"And you can't expect me to live by your ungodly standards, either!" Watson yelled at him, pointing warningly at his face. "Damn it, Holmes! I wonder why I have put up with you even this long!"

"Hardly a month," Holmes sniffed.

"And look at the deterioration!"

Holmes shrugged, and began reaching for the cocaine bottle. Watson stormed over and took it. To Holmes' protest, he then hurled it across the room. The glass burst, liquid spilling out all over the floor.

_The world we knew  
Won't come back  
The time we've lost  
Can't get back  
The life we had  
Won't be ours again_

Sherlock sat there, staring, silent. Watson glared down at him. A dark silence passed between them.

"I put up with you because I love you," Watson said, turning to him. He looked matured from the exertion. He shook his head. "But I won't put up with that."

Sherlock looked caught between defiance and worry.

"I'll leave."

"To go where?" Sherlock asked, finally standing up from the sofa. "Who would have you, doctor? Who would take you like this?"

"Do you see?" Watson asked, grimacing. "Do you! I don't mean to insult you or be cruel, Holmes, but _you do_! I was not attacking you with my words, I was only trying to help you!"

"I don't _need _help!" Sherlock exclaimed, finally bordering on shouting. He rubbed his face, turning around, pacing a few steps, and then turning back to Watson. "I'm not one of your patients, doctor."

"I almost wish it were a physical thing that was wrong with you," Watson said. "At least then I could fix it."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a line. He eyed Watson closely, wondering. The irritating impulse to beg him to stay, to kiss him, promise him anything, love him, was nagging away at his nerves. Blasted emotions! How useless they were!

"In your current state, I rather doubt that."

"Why are you insulting me, Holmes?" Watson asked, coming up to him. He put his hands on the man's shoulders, looking down at him intently. "Why?"

"Why not? You insult me with every order spoken by your insolent mouth," Sherlock said testily. His love for the man was cloying, making him irrational, which only furthered his anger. He pushed Watson's hands away. "You say I'm arrogant, but you're the one! How else could you presume to think you understand me? Help me, you say? How? When you can scarcely help yourself, scarcely figure out your own minuscule brain?"

Watson lifted a hand to backhand him, but restrained himself.

_This world will never be  
What I expected  
And if I don't belong_

"Yes, violence is never civilized, is it?" Holmes said, almost cynical.

Watson smiled. "No, it never is." He took Holmes by the arm suddenly, his grip crushing. "Discipline, on the other hand, is what creates civilization, is it not?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Discipline?"

"Not too familiar with the term, are you? I expected as much," Watson said, dragging him along back to the sitting area. "Well, I suppose I should enlighten you, Holmes. I did, after all, promise to take you in hand, didn't I?"

_Even if I say  
It'll be alright  
Still I hear you say  
You want to end your life  
Now and again we try  
To just stay alive  
Maybe we'll turn it all around  
'Cause it's not too late  
It's never too late  
Maybe we'll turn it all around  
'Cause it's not too late  
It's never too late (It's never too late)  
It's not too late  
It's never too late _

**04**

**Beyonce, "Halo" (Theme of Sherlock and Watson)**

_Remember those walls I built?  
Well, baby they are tumbling down  
And they didn't even put up a fight  
They didn't even make a sound  
I found a way to let you in  
But, I never really had a doubt  
Standing in the light of your halo  
I got my angel now_

Fresh tears streamed down Holmes' face. How could this have happened? He had chained himself to cold logic, emotionless reason, and he thought he had convinced himself it was all that mattered. He never wanted common things like love and devotion, or so he had said . . .

"You're shaking."

Sherlock steadied himself by leaning into Watson's arms, pressing closely against his chest. He wanted to tell Watson that he, too, was terrified-- not of loss, but of gain. He could trust himself, trust his chains of logic, but how could he trust another human being? What happened if he learned to? He knew what the conclusion would be, what the conclusion always was . . .

_Humans lose one another. Gain **is **loss, because whatever you gain in temporary life, you will inevitably lose. I deal with the immutable reality I can see laid out before me. What can I do with something uncertain and vague? Love is torture, a constant pressure of fear and speculation. The question is not 'if' you will lose a person, that is a fool's lie. The question is, **when **will you lose that person? _

_If I love Watson . . . _

_. . . when will I lose him?_

Sherlock broke into more tears, buried his face in Watson's shirt.

_It's like I've been awakened  
Every rule I had, you break it  
It's the risk that I'm taking  
I ain't never gonna shut you out_

Watson smiled gently at him, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. He was sharp, and had a sense of Sherlock's train of thought. "I know it hurts," he said, and it was apparent he was not entirely referring to the whip's painful impressions. "Do not be afraid, Sherlock, please. Don't fight it."

Sherlock just shook his head, knowing the man did not understand. Even if he did, he would lie to himself endlessly to assuage that grim future of loss. He could be bright when he wanted, but at his heart, Watson was a romantic.

_When will I lose him?_

Sherlock wished he could fool himself into believing in romance. He wished he could ask for inane promises of forever the way everyone else did, and suspend his belief enough to be reassured by them. How easy it must be to put faith in those impossible ideals, in the fantasy of forever. How nice it must feel to stand at the altar and truly believe with all your heart that you were committed to another " 'til death". Legally, of course, you quite possibly were, but such bindings were meaningless when it came to the soul. You could join lives until death, but never loves. What, then, was even the point of the practice? It was all so pointless, but if only he could believe in it . . .

_Everywhere I'm looking now  
I'm surrounded by your embrace  
Baby, I can see your halo  
You know you're my saving grace  
You're everything I need and more  
__It's written all over your face  
Baby, I can feel your halo  
Pray it won't fade away_

Watson tipped Sherlock's tear-streaked face up to face his own. Sherlock sniffled, looking rather pathetic in his disheveled clothes, his dark hair on end, his mouth turned down. How cute he was, even in misery—especially in misery.

"I'm here _now_," Watson told him. He leaned down his face to kiss the man, slow and soothing. He felt the shudder and then the stillness in Holmes, felt his hand rustling into his hair. "Whatever else may come, you have me now, completely and utterly."

Holmes heard the unspoken question hang between them as he searched Watson's glistening blue eyes.

_'Is that not enough?'_

A small fit of self-pity ran through Holmes. Well, he had little choice in the matter, didn't he? It would have to be enough, as the only choice offered was nothing at all! Promises had not been made in voice, but had they not been made in body? How ironic that Watson worried about his being addicted to the drug, when he had already forced a much crueler addiction on him!

If he did not believe in promises, that would not stop Sherlock from demanding them, he decided. He shifted on Watson's lap, swiftly reminded of the whipping as the bruises ached, and looked up at Watson fully. He let the need and the distress show through his face, put a hand to grip the man's shoulder in a possessive and clinging way.

_Hit me like a ray of sun  
Burning through my darkest night  
You're the only one that I want  
Think I'm addicted to your light  
I swore I'd never fall again  
But this don't even feel like falling  
Gravity can't forget  
To pull me back to the ground again_

"Do you love me, Dr. Watson?"

Watson became suspicious of him, but then guilt forced him to chide himself mentally for being so hard on the man. He took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it. "Of course I do, dear Holmes."

Holmes started with the truth, as that was always the best bait for the hook. "I have never let anyone into my life so intimately as I have let you," he said. "I have never lost control of my feelings, or of the feelings of a lover, as I have with you. Nothing ventured, everything gained, that is how I have been in relationships."

He saw the pity in Watson's eyes, knew it was working. If he was going to someday lose Watson, he wanted Watson to suffer over it as much as possible. The foundation of guilt and responsibility he would lay here would build upon itself the closer they got, and the weight of it crashing down on Watson the day he left might not stop him, but it certainly would wound him profoundly.

"I have been safe, and I have been happy in ignorance of possibilities," Holmes went on. "Yet . . . I would give it all up to love you, Watson."

_It's like I've been awakened  
Every rule I had, you break it  
It's the risk that I'm taking  
I'm never gonna shut you out_

Watson smiled, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. How could he take on such a burden? It was difficult to love someone and be loved back; the feedback of one partner's absence was sure to nearly destroy the other in such a symbiotic relationship.

_Perfect, _observed Sherlock.

"Yes, love," he emphasized. "I love you, Watson."

_Everywhere I'm looking now  
I'm surrounded by your embrace  
Baby, I can see your halo  
You know you're my saving grace  
You're everything I need and more  
It's written all over your face  
Baby, I can feel your halo  
I pray it won't fade away_

Watson was swept away by the admission, despite the ominous burden looming overhead. He kissed Sherlock fiercely, and Holmes could practically taste his devotion.

"It defies everything I have ever believed in, everything I have ever striven for," Sherlock whispered. "But I love you. And I-- At risk of sounding naïve and ordinary, I . . . have to ask something of you."

"Name it, love."

The fierceness in his voice made Sherlock almost burst out laughing. It had worked. At this point, Watson would promise anything.

Homes met his eyes with his most poignant look, searching and uncertain and full of need. "Never leave me."

Watson embraced him. "I would never do that to you, Sherlock," he said softly. The words were clear and confident, though his mind was reeling at their implications. "I promise."

Sherlock felt a little sad. _I wish I could believe it! _

_Everywhere I'm looking now  
I'm surrounded by your embrace  
Baby, I can see your halo  
You know you're my saving grace  
You're everything I need and more  
It's written all over your face  
Baby, I can feel your halo  
I pray it won't fade away_

I can feel your halo  
I can see your halo  
I can feel your halo  
I can see your halo  
Halo......

**05**

**Lady Gaga, "Bad Romance" (Silly Theme of Sherlock and Watson ;)**

_Want your bad romance_

Watson joined the laugh, and they sat down, Sherlock with his feet up on the sofa, Watson in the large, high-backed chair. Sherlock was loosening his striped necktie impatiently, and for a moment held the cool glass of water to his forehead.

"Speaking of the Yard, I think you will be pleased to know that I have put them to shame, at least in words," Watson said. He removed the book from his pocket. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes, the _fantastically _titled 'Study in Scarlet', the story of our case," Sherlock said, though he did not sound pleased.

Watson's enthusiasm wavered. "That's right."

"It went to print three days ago, and you bought it yesterday, when you finally recovered a small portion of your recent losses," Sherlock said. Staring into his glass, he said flatly, "I am afraid I honestly cannot congratulate you on it, Watson."

_I want your ugly  
I want your disease  
I want your everything  
As long as it's free  
I want your love  
Love-love-love  
I want your love_

Watson sat back in his chair, blue eyes cool and steady on Sherlock. He was silent for a minute, assuring himself that he would not let his scornful lover get under his skin. In an even voice that almost achieved pleasantry, he asked, "And why not?"

"Because I skimmed through it on the date of publication. Watson, detection is an exact science, and the subject thereof should be treated in the same cold, detached manner," Sherlock explained, sounding like a teacher addressing a particularly slow, excitable child. "In your narrative, the facts are colored with romanticism, which is--" He sighed. "--no less than I expected you to do. You show promise for deduction at times, Watson, but you are, at heart, an admirer of the maudlin. You would work a love story into the very proposals of Euclid, my friend."

Watson took a sip from his glass, continued to stare at Holmes. He could feel his temper rising. "I told the facts as they stood," he said. "I could not help it if the story turned out to be fantastic."

"You chose not to suppress facts that marred the data, illustrated the entire thing with a poet's flourish, Watson," Sherlock said, shaking his head. His tone was now that of a man reciting a beloved relatives' funeral sermon. "Really, the only thing worth telling of that case was my infallibly-woven chain of logic which bound the thing into reason. A study of my analytical reasoning would have been sufficient."

Watson pointed the book at him. "You wanted a study of your brilliance, that is what you wanted."

Sherlock looked nonplussed. "And why not?"

_I want your drummer  
The touch of your healing  
I want you leather dirty kiss in the scene  
And I want your love  
You know that I want you  
Love-love-love  
I want your love  
Love-love-love  
I want your love_

Watson exhaled, getting to his feet. He crossed his arms, looking down at his partner. "Does anything please you, Holmes?"

"You are offended. There is no reason to take offense." Sherlock took Watson's arm and pulled him down to sit beside him on the sofa. "I appreciate your attempt to give credit to my scientific deduction methods, even if you did display them in an overwrought spiel of nonsense."

"An overwrought spiel of nonsense?"

"Indubitably."

_You know that I want you  
And you know that I need you  
I want it bad  
Bad and bad_

Watson took the man by the wrist and gave him a tug that pulled him over his lap. Sherlock struggled lightly, but was too weary to make much fuss. With a small sigh, he hung there, over the man's knees, and traced the pattern of the carpet mathematically.

"You are a terrible ingrate, Holmes," Watson scolded him. He lifted the book and slapped the hard cover against the man's backside. "I wrote that specifically for you, and you dare dismiss it like trash!"

"I did not dismiss it, I merely critiqued it."

"Without so much as an ounce of delicacy," Watson pointed out, continuing to spank the man with the discredited book. "You appreciate nothing!"

"Did you really write it for me?"

Watson paused, looking down at him. Sherlock twisted his head around to see him, and gave him a flushed, sheepish smile. Watson hesitated, but then resumed the spanking. "Yes, I did," he admitted ruefully.

Sherlock squirmed, leaned the side of his face against the man's leg. "I do appreciate the effort, Doctor, I do."

"Ha!"

"It was sweet."

_I want your loving  
And I want your revenge  
You and me put on a bad romance  
I want your loving  
All your love is revenge  
You and me put on a bad romance_

. . .

_Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!  
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!  
Caught in a bad romance_

Sherlock went on with his pretense of reading, until Watson pulled the tome from his hands, shut it, and returned it to the shelf (two books over from its proper alphabetical place, which was ironic given that Watson was the one who insisted on keeping the books ordered).

"Shall I fetch your whip, doctor?" Sherlock asked dryly.

Watson frowned in bafflement. "Why ever for, Holmes?"

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Oh, that," Watson said, referring to the spanking. He waved a hand. "No, no, that was-- I did not mean to severely punish you, Holmes, just take you down a peg."

_Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!  
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!  
Caught in a bad romance_

Sherlock crossed his arms. "But do you not blame me for your not having the rent?"

"Why in the world would I blame you, love?"

Sherlock faltered. Was his estimation of Watson wrong?

"Have I ever punished you for something _I _have done?" Watson asked. He laughed, shaking his head, and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "You think too little of me, dear fellow."

"I--"

"Men make choices, Sherlock, and they make them with their own minds," Watson told him. "I don't believe in influence or any such excuses. No, my wrongs are on my head and my head alone, and it is only right that I figure a way to solve them."

Watson kissed his forehead, and then went over to the sofa. He lay down, looking faintly troubled, an arm thrown over his eyes. Sherlock hovered over to him, and sat down at his feet. Watson raised his arm from his eyes just a tad, to look down the length of the sofa at him. Sherlock was quiet with thoughtful consideration. Watson was curious as to what he was thinking, but he had long since learned that questioning Sherlock would only lead to annoyance for both of them.

_I want your horror  
I want your design  
'Cause you're a criminal  
As long as your mine  
I want your love  
Love-love-love  
I want your love_

Instead, Watson reached over and rubbed Holmes' shoulder. "Did you really figure me for the despicable sort of person that blames their own evils on another?"

Holmes was grumpy again. "I was already feeling rather victimized, so it did not seem a very far step."

"Poor thing." Watson sat up enough to pull Sherlock onto his chest. He caressed his arm, kissing the top of his head. "But you really did make me feel awful about the book."

Sherlock teetered on the brink of apologizing, but refused. "Hmph."

"Shall we call it even, then?"

"For the moment."

"For the moment!" echoed Watson. He laughed, tousling the man's black hair now. "You are impossibly stubborn, do you know that?"

"I have been told as much."

Watson drew him into a kiss, which became more than a kiss. Sherlock fell out of his sulk, caught up in the man's infectious frenzy. The two paused only long enough for Watson to answer another knock at the door (Mrs. Hudson bringing up a bucket of fresh ice), and then returned to the sofa.

_I want your psycho  
You're burning this stick  
Want you in my room  
When your baby is sick  
I want your love  
Love-love-love  
I want your love  
Love-love-love  
I want your love_

Watson soothed away the faint blush that lingered on his lover's buttocks with an ice cube, and then teased him further with it. Sherlock shook his head, calling him unoriginal, even as he shivered beneath the moist coldness that tingled across his skin. Despite his claim of impatience for trite physical games and sexual experimentation, he always secretly took a thrill in Watson's scintillating motions.

_All in all, I have fallen prey to the blindness of love, _Sherlock admitted to himself as he lay beneath the other man, his entire body shaking, soft sounds escaping his lips. _Well, it was a choice, and an educated one. By the time we first made love, I had already taken full stock of him, and I knew he was trustworthy and true beneath his flaws; he is a man I would easily have as a friend, and that is more important than sexual attraction. I only allowed myself the sexual attraction after (I think it was after?-- No, no, it __**was**__)._

_As to our being men, well, I find men become quite biased the moment they are introduced to the fairer sex. It is an obstacle that clouds the perception, and I could never have let myself suffer such a distraction. Besides, I simply do not believe in it. I do not believe in the purity of love between man and woman, lest such a thing is defined by subterfuge and ulterior motive. No, no, women have never been for me, and I not for women! Besides! What woman has ever thrilled me so? None, and none ever shall._

_You know that I want you  
And you know that I need you  
I want it bad  
Bad and bad_

I want your loving  
And I want your revenge  
You and me put on a bad romance  
I want your loving  
All your love is revenge  
You and me put on a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!  
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!  
Caught in a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!  
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!  
Caught in a bad romance

**06**

**Bjork, "Possibly Maybe"**

_Your flirt finds me out  
Teases the crack in me  
Smittens me with hope_

"Are you all right there, miss?" he slurred. "Bit of trouble."

"It certainly was," Irene said, still flushed from the fight. "I owe you my life."

"Weren't a bother," mumbled Holmes.

Irene opened her mouth to reply, but a cab drove up then. Godfrey Norton stepped out, striding up to her. She moved away from Sherlock with a small, sheepish smile, and greeted him with a kiss upon the cheek. For no reason he could discern, Sherlock realized he had decided that he did not very much like Mr. Norton.

_Possibly maybe probably love_

The two went into the church then, Irene shooting one last glance over her shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and thought. He slunk over to the side of the building, wiped sweat from his face with a hand. The summer heat had returned in full force.

Godfrey was suddenly on the street again. He looked around, spotted Sherlock, and rushed up to him. "Ah, my good fellow! Would you be so kind?"

Sherlock had not said a word before he found himself being led towards the church's doors. "Be so kind as to what?" he asked suspiciously, holding back.

"No more than three minutes, I promise you," Norton said, dragging him along. "Come on, there's a good man. It won't be legal unless we have a witness, you see."

Sherlock was coerced up to the altar, where stood Irene waiting with a glowing smile on her face. He glanced around the church, and fell silent. The clergyman resumed his gentle recital, and Godfrey took his place before Irene.

_As much as i definitely enjoy solitude  
I wouldn't mind perhaps  
Spending little time with you  
Sometimes  
Sometimes_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, removing his hat and putting it in his hand. He tried to look respectable in a place he found ludicrous, and tried to agree with solemnity to things he knew nothing about. No one seemed to care if his replies were somewhat lacking. As for Holmes, he busied himself by noting how church ceilings seemed to be structured with the purpose of dwarfing humanity in the shadow of the Almighty. He felt very small and very misplaced.

_Possibly maybe probably love_

Only Irene avoided being lost in the place. She was a vision that seemed carved out of the holy heights of the Above, illuminating the church with her pure beauty. Sherlock found his eyes had settled upon her, and every now and then, hers would settle on him. In those moments, the detective almost fancied Mr. Norton gone, and the two of them being alone.

_Rubbish! _his mind cried indignantly. _Come now, Holmes, you're smarter than that!_

_Uncertainly excites me  
Baby  
Who knows what's going to happen?  
Lottery or car crash  
Or you'll join a cult_

Sherlock drew a breath, lifted his face, and let the place seep out of his mind. _I am sexually attracted to her, and why not? She is lovely. Arguing such a simple thing only strengthens it, so I admit it freely. I am not an average, simpering male caught in the spell of an attractive female. It is simply another fact, and an unimportant one, nothing more._

It was all over with quickly. Godfrey shook his hand vigorously, thanking him. Irene gave his cheek a kiss, and handed him a sovereign. With that, they were off.

_Possibly maybe probably love_

Sherlock followed them onto the street. They separated, and he overheard their arrangements. This time, he followed neither one, going on to make some arrangements of his own.

The sovereign remained in his hand, warm and flipped round and round his palm, the entire route.

_Mon petit vulcan  
You're eruptions and disasters  
I keep calm  
Admiring your lava  
I keep calm_

Possibly maybe probably love  


**07**

**Pink, "Sober" (Theme of Sherlock and Irene)**

Inside, Irene leaned over Sherlock, handing him a glass of water and wiping away the blood. He took the monogrammed handkerchief from her and held it in place against his "injury", lest she find out there was no source of the flow beneath. He drank the water, thanking her. She smiled, swept away. He caught the scent of her perfume, a poignantly crisp, dreamy floral scent.

"You gave me quite a fright, rushing in to my defense that way," Irene said, removing her jacket, hat, and gloves. She handed them to the maid waiting at the door, then waved her away. She shut the doors, leaving them alone. "I would have been loath to see a man die in my defense when-- Well."

Sherlock knew what she had been about to confess: that she was quite capable of defending herself. She smiled sheepishly at him, then came back to his side. The lady seated herself primly on a chair beside the sofa, and looked at him intently. She had a piercing quality to her eyes that Sherlock had never seen in a woman before.

_I don't wanna be the girl who laughs the loudest  
Or the girl who never wants to be alone  
I don't wanna be that call at four o'clock in the mornin'  
'Cause I'm the only one you know in the world that won't be home_

"It was only a purse," she said, "nothing worth losing a good man over."

"It was not the purse I thought to protect, my dear," Sherlock said. He had pitched his voice higher than his usual, giving him a mousy, fussily eager manner of a religion-peddler.

Irene smiled, politely embarrassed. "I had forgotten the chivalry of London men," she said. "I was assisted by another good Samaritan earlier, you see. Quite a smaller one, though." She laughed.

Sherlock faltered for a moment. Was that a hint? Had she seen through his two disguises? He peered into her eyes. No, no, of course she hadn't. Her attitude was that of someone thoroughly surprised by coincidence.

"Never say the Lord does not tend his flocks," he said. "Though, if I may be so bold, I must say you have had a trying day, my dear."

"Indeed," sighed Irene. She glanced at the window, eyes far away. "I have."

It was funny that she did not note the wedding, nor even think to touch the ring upon her finger. Newlyweds normally mentioned it at any given moment, especially women.

_Ah, the sun is blindin'  
I stayed up again  
Oh, I am findin'  
That's not the way I want my story to end_

"Is there a specific trial that troubles you, madame?"

Irene shook her head. She stood, going over to peer out the window. Holmes hoped Watson had the sense to stay just beneath the ledge and out of view.

"Are you ever lonely, Mr.--?"

"Harker."

"Mr. Harker?"

"One is never alone when they walk with God, dear," Sherlock said. He took up some bandages and began fixing one to his nonexistent wound. "He brings us to what we need."

Irene turned back to him. "All that we need?" Her tone was almost challenging. "Even a person we might need?"

"Did He not bring me to you?"

_I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me  
But why do I feel this party's over?  
No pain inside, you're my protection  
But how do I feel this good sober?_

Irene opened her mouth, and Holmes knew she was about to admit that she had not needed the pitiful defense of the clergyman at all. She shut her red lips again, and looked rather sullen. Trapped by her lies! Sherlock had to stifle a chuckle.

"Yes, yes, He did, I suppose," Irene mused softly. She came back to sit on the chair beside him, gazing at him. "You have very lovely eyes, Mr. Harker."

_No usage of religious title, _Sherlock noted. _Not once. Interesting, though not unexpected. She is, after all, a scandalous woman, and those are rarely very God-fearing (or, they are God-fearing to the point of total avoidance of the subject). This one is the former, judging from her brushes with cynicism and scorn. How very interesting. A woman too clever to be swayed by the church._

"I—Thank you, my dear," Holmes said uncertainly. He almost fell out of character under those eyes, and mentally shook himself back to reality.

Irene took the dirty kerchief and bowl of water away, set it aside on a table. "Would you like a drink? Some brandy, perhaps?"

"Yes, please."

Irene poured them both glasses and sat again on the chair.

"Forgive me, I do not mean to pry, but I have always been curious," Ms. Adler said. "It seems an isolated life."

"Not at all," Sherlock said. "My faith is all the companionship I need."

"Man does not live by faith alone, sir."

"You put the emphasis on the wrong side of it," chuckled Holmes. "It is by bread that man does not live solely by."

"Yes, but which is the more striking urge, the one to eat or the one to pray?"

_I don't wanna be the girl that has to fill the silence  
The quiet scares me 'cause it screams the truth  
Please don't tell me that we had that conversation  
'Cause I won't remember, save your breath  
'Cause what's the use?_

Sherlock was greatly fascinated by her views, though he cleared his throat in his affected fussy manner. "Well, even I cannot fight the science of the body, of course."

"Exactly," Irene seized on the point. "And why should we? Are we really born such filthy vessels of sin?"

"It is written, you know."

"I know, but they are still words," Irene said, insinuating that she put little stock in unproven statements (_How like me, _Holmes thought). "I rather like this vessel, I'll have you know."

"I am not disapproving of it," Sherlock said, bordering on the very brink of becoming a Lothario rather than a holy man. "After all, did I not save it—child?"

"You did," smiled Irene. She moved the chair closer to him. "I do hope you do not feel insulted by my questions. I am in a pensive mood today, it seems."

_Ah, the night is callin'  
And it whispers to me softly, "Come and play"  
But I, I am fallin'  
And if I let myself go I'm the only one to blame_

"I do not mind at all," Sherlock replied. "I enjoy a challenge. It is easy to win the hearts of men, and women, already open, after all."

"I suppose it would be," Irene mused. She put a finger to her bottom lip, thinking. "As for what I was saying, if God fashioned these bodies of ours, why should we not trust them?"

Sherlock sat up a little, leaning closer to her. "I did not imply we should not, my dear."

"By denying our needs, do we not show distrust? Would it be respectful to ourselves to starve to death?" Irene said. She spoke in a gentle tone that kept her words from being incisively sharp. "Not only food, Mr. Harker, but other things. Many needs, and desires."

Sherlock leaned all the closer. He could not help himself from taking her hands in his, which sent a heated thrill through his skin. Fortunately, it was not an out of character gesture for a kindly, sympathetic clergyman.

"What do you desire, madame?"

_I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me  
But why do I feel this party's over?  
No pain inside, you're like perfection  
But how do I feel this good sober?_

He truly wanted an answer. She seemed the melancholy damsel, and yet she had just been married! To boot, she was blackmailing a King in a most disgraceful way. Sherlock could not figure her one way or the other. Most women had clear goals, usually revolving around finding a suitable husband, but this lady seemed restless, seeking. She had a mind, a good one, and she wanted to do something with it. What did she want to do? Find fortune? Fame? If not love, then what?

_Comin' down, comin' down, comin' down  
Spinnin' 'round, spinnin' 'round, spinnin' 'round  
I'm lookin' for myself, sober_

"Perhaps desire has nothing to do with it," she said. "Have you never wanted to do something out of curiosity alone? Simply to know how it might feel? How it might turn out?"

Sherlock stifled a smile.

"I suppose you wouldn't--"

"No, you would be surprised," Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward all the more. Her perfume was a wispy, pleasing scent around him. "I have been led down the path of temptation like any other person, at times just to feel the fire . . . burn beneath my feet."

"Hmm, that _is _a surprise."

Their faces were so close he could almost feel her soft skin against his own. The hot summer air encroached upon them, further stirring the blood. Her face was dewy from it, and a curled strand or two of her hair artfully graced the sides of her face.

Sherlock cursed his detailed mind. He took in every inch of her, but these facts had the effect on his brain of alcohol. He was drowning in the enigma of her mind, enraptured by her face. He noted the slightly parted lips and softly heaving breast before him, and felt urges he thought he had trampled out of himself long ago.

_When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad  
'Til you're trying to find the you that you once had  
I have heard myself cry 'never again'  
Broken down in agony, just tryin' find a friend, oh, oh_

Sherlock forced himself to turn away. He bowed his head, feigning a cough. "Oh, my dear, would you mind cracking the windows?" he inquired. "It has gotten stuffy."

"Of course," Irene said, standing. She went over and opened it. "Better?"

He beckoned for her to return to his side, and she obeyed.

"Where were we?" he asked.

"Temptation," said she.

"Ah, right," Sherlock said. He had to clear his throat to retain the squeaky pitch of his character. "It is a trial we all must face, and a sore one. It is best, my lady, that we admit our failings and curb them as stringently as we can." The words reminded him of Watson, and he allowed himself a smile, passing it off as a kindly one. "Otherwise, we are lost."

_I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me  
But why do I feel this party's over?  
No pain inside, you're like perfection  
But how do I feel this good sober?_

**08**

**Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris"**

"A woman engaging enough to win your curiosity is bound to be a rarity."

"Watson, leave it alone," Sherlock grumbled, blushing deeply. He continued to kiss the man's neck, trying desperately to distract him from the annoying conversation.

"If anything, an affair with her might--"

"Might what!" Sherlock exploded. He climbed off of Watson, drawing a breath to collect himself. He ran his hands through his hair, paced, and then turned on Watson again. "Might get rid of me? Is that it, Watson?"

Watson was dismayed by his sudden fury. "That is not what I mean, Sherlock. You should know better than that."

"What I know is that you are an intelligent man obsessed with overcoming his worth," Sherlock said angrily. "You and I are of a kind, Watson, a special kind of man in this world of foppish sentimentalists. Yet you insist on denying it!"

Watson watched him steadily, sitting up on the sofa.

"Oh, Watson, don't you see?" Sherlock groaned. He came up to the man, took his face in both hands. "You insist upon manners that you know are insipid. You object to my lifestyle constantly. You still harbor regrets over not having a proper wife, even after being so happy with me. Why? Why are these things so important to you? Simply because they are things you have been taught to believe a man _should _uphold?"

"Did you ever think that perhaps they were merely facets of my personality?"

"Even worse," grumbled Holmes, pacing away from him. "You have so much potential, Watson, yet you waste it with your silly romantic ways."

Watson stood. "I am the way I _wish _to be, Holmes," he said. "I find it highly patronizing and bigoted of you to judge what morals and sentiments are worthwhile, and what are, as you say, a 'waste'. What in God's name makes you perfect enough to look down on me?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Now you're being sensitive."

"I am not being sensitive!" Watson yelled at him. "Do you realize you use that excuse every single time I object to being insulted by you?" He came up to Sherlock, following his pacing. "You of all people should understand how it feels to be patronized. Does the Yard not treat you as insignificantly as you treat me?"

"That is different," Holmes muttered. "I do not deserve it."

"And I deserve to be looked down on?"

Holmes stopped, looked up at him, then continued his pace. He said nothing. Watson took him by the shirt and shook him.

"Are you going back to your cold-blooded airs now?" he asked. "Where is all that love and appreciation?"

"I do love and appreciate you, Doctor," sighed Sherlock. He reached up to touch the man's face. "But you are trying to have me confess to things I do not feel for that woman. Don't you think I have reason to be suspect of your motives?"

"I am not trying to get rid of you through Irene Adler," Watson assured him. "Trust me, I have become more attached to you than you even realize. God knows why, you're so hateful at times!"

"Let me remind you then."

Sherlock pulled his face down into a kiss. Watson felt his anger drift away like so many clouds across the sky, insubstantial and out of reach. Sherlock felt it go out of him, and was relieved.

_And I'd give up forever to touch you  
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow  
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
And I don't want to go home right now_

"I only want you to be happy, Holmes," Watson said, stroking the man's hair. "What I was trying to say was not to let me stand in your way if pursuing Irene is what would make you happiest."

"It's not."

Watson fell back on the sofa, pulling Sherlock down with him. He looked at the face above him, noting how roguish Holmes looked with his hair fallen over his forehead. There was a vulnerability about him during these intimate moments, so raw and open that it was almost painful to see.

That was when it struck Watson why Sherlock was so reluctant to even mention the idea of going after Irene: he was scared. The idea of having his ego wounded by a woman, being betrayed by love, terrified him.

Watson rushed into a frenzied kiss to hide the sympathy in his eyes. He thought back to those first moments, how he had seen the fear in the detective as he ordered him to get their first kiss over with. His mind traced over the painful memory of whipping him, and how very fragile Sherlock had felt in his arms in the afterglow of punishment. He scorned feelings because they hurt you, distracted you, left you susceptible to any abuse.

_And all I can taste is this moment  
And all I can breathe is your life  
'Cause sooner or later it's over  
I just don't want to miss you tonight_

For some reason, he trusted Watson, and had let him in. _Look how that turned out, _Watson thought. _For a noble purpose or not, I __**did **__hurt him, and I will hurt him again someday, just as he continues to hurt me with his words. Pain is inevitable in love. I find it a bitterly sweet thing, because it is so very human and so very unselfish to hurt over another. Sherlock, however, must find it absolutely repellent, because it makes no logical sense. He is a man that values control above all: Look at how his profession itself tries to fit something so chaotic as crime into neat little boxes of logic. He craves order in the world, or perhaps __**to order **__the world. It is when he has no case to organize into a solution that he lets the chaos overtake him, drowning himself in it to block out all the rest. _

_And I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am_

_I never should have pressed him about Irene. Women are an unfathomable mystery, a masterpiece of emotions, the summation of desires, and thus represent the ultimate chaos. Of course Holmes would never willingly follow into that. It is a miracle he even allows himself this relationship of ours. But then, I also try to seek order, so perhaps he finds me a stabilizing presence. Who can say?_

_All I know is that I am the most fortunate one. After I was left alone most of the day, after I sensed his attraction to another, after I thought he really had been wounded in the fight—Through all this, I have come to the decision that I cannot live without him. _

Watson gripped Sherlock's shoulder to still a trembling. "Dear," he murmured, breathing heavily. He leaned his face down to kiss the man just beneath the base of the neck. "Shh, it is all right." Then, he whispered in his ear, "I won't ever betray you."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. He smiled faintly, though his eyes remained sad. "I could almost believe you, Doctor."

"Believe what you will," Watson said, stroking his cheek. "You are a believer in the plain facts, yes? I shall weave you a solid chain of evidence that you will never be able to deny."

Sherlock smiled, leaning his head down again on the sofa. He said nothing, but Watson could feel his reserved happiness. More promises . . .

_Well, let them stand, _Watson thought. _This time, I make them with no doubt in my mind. _

_I love him._

_And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming  
Or the moment of truth in your lies  
When everything feels like the movies  
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive_

And I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am

**09**

**Beyonce, "If I Were A Boy" (Irene's Theme)**

Irene inhaled sharply, following his gaze to the police. Worry flashed across her face, but he saw her force it back, the features smoothing back into their usual bemused, ladylike expression.

"Very good, Mr. Watson," she said. "You've found me."

"I never lost you, in fact," Watson said, walking with her casually (away from the boarding steps). "I knew the old woman that informed us of your departure was you. You did not guess what Sherlock's next move would be until that morning, and you rushed into the disguise."

"A perfect disguise, especially given the rush," Irene said, lifting her face indignantly. "How in the world could you have seen through it? You make guesses, and happened upon being correct!"

"That may have been true once, but I have learned a thing or two from my friend," Watson smiled. "You see, it was the hands that betrayed you." He lifted her hand, slipped off a glove. "Far too young for a woman of such obvious age."

"You noticed!"

"That you attempted to cover them with your shawl when you realized your error? Yes, I did, and Sherlock would have, as well, had your words not thrown him first," Watson said. "Very clever of you to shock him with his apparent failure right off. The proverbial slap in the face; it stunned him beautifully."

"Well, well, so the good Doctor is more than a witless accomplice," Irene murmured. "Still! You were too late then, and you are even later now."

"Not entirely," Watson said. He stopped walking, though he kept a firm grip on her arm. "You disguised yourself and remained at the house to waylay Holmes in case he gave chase. Your husband left in the hansom that was departing just as we arrived, was he not? And the photograph went with him."

Irene's eyelids fluttered momentarily. She licked her lips, said softly, "Yes."

"Both are already boarded on this train."

A whispered, "Yes." She shook herself out of the shock, lifting her chin impudently. "And what shall you do now, Doctor? Have us both arrested?"

"There is time to come to that yet," Watson said coolly. "First, tell me, what of Holmes?"

Irene turned her face. "What of him?" The scorn rang false.

"You were very cruel to him."

"His fault for allowing it," Irene said curtly. "I am sure the King gave him proper warning about me. If he chose to think of me as just another foolish harlot, he deserved what he got."

_If I were a boy even just for a day  
I'd roll out of bed in the morning  
And throw on what I wanted  
And go drink beer with the guys_

"I agree."

The lady blinked. "You do?"

"Yes," Watson said. "Sherlock is a boastful, snobbish, dismissive rogue. He thinks himself a god in a realm of fools."

"You sound very fond of him," Irene chuckled knowingly.

"I am, actually," Watson said quietly. "And you?"

"He is a man I . . . could have come to like very much," Irene confessed. "When I normally look at men, I often get frustrated with them. Here are the creatures that own the world, the minds that turn the wheels of history—and what do they do with such power? They act foppishly, chasing the myth of intelligence and strutting around with an air of pretended culture! They learn, but so few of them ever _think_! Like our dear King, for example."

"What did he do to you, then?"

_And chase after girls  
I'd kick it with who I wanted  
And I'd never get confronted for it  
'Cause they stick up for me_

"He did the worst thing a man could do: he _lied _to me," Irene said, her dark eyes snapping. "How strong and confident that oaf acted. He would give up his kingdom for me if necessary, said he. Lies! When it came to it, he hemmed and hawed, giving up all his excuses of duty and honor and blood. He is only fortunate," the lady sniffed haughtily, "that I did not spill his blood."

"I see."

"No, you do not see," Irene said wearily. "You are a man, Doctor, only a man. No man could ever see it clearly."

_If I were a boy  
I think I could understand  
How it feels to love a girl  
I swear I'd be a better man_

Watson smiled to himself. Her attitude reminded him so distinctly of Sherlock. Had Sherlock not said words similar?

_Neither realizes that I do understand, perhaps more clearly than either of them, _he thought. _It is usually __the outsider that sees the picture in its entirety. _

"So," Irene said, tossing her head. "The train shall depart soon. Shall you keep me from my husband and my free life?"

"Do you love him?"

"My husband?"

"Yes."

"It is none of your concern."

_I'd listen to her  
'Cause I know how it hurts  
When you lose the one you wanted  
'Cause he's taking you for granted  
And everything you had got destroyed_

"Fair enough," Watson said. He rubbed his chin, looked back at Lestrade. He let a long moment pass, feeling the woman's tension building.

"Last call!"

The train was starting up, white smoke billowing from it. She glanced at the shining black behemoth, and her eyes widened. She started in an attempt to move, but Watson held her in place.

"I warn you, Doctor, do not make me desperate."

"You would not attempt anything, not with the Yard so close at hand," Watson called her bluff. "You are in luck today, however, Ms. Adler. I am not going to have you arrested."

He released her arm, removing his hat and bowing. "I bid you farewell."

_If I were a boy  
I would turn off my phone  
Tell everyone it's broken  
So they'd think that I was sleeping alone_

I'd put myself first  
And make the rules as I go  
'Cause I know that she'd be faithful  
Waiting for me to come home, to come home

If I were a boy  
I think I could understand  
How it feels to love a girl  
I swear I'd be a better man

I'd listen to her  
'Cause I know how it hurts  
When you lose the one you wanted  
'Cause he's taking you for granted  
And everything you had got destroyed

Irene moved to the boarding steps, hesitated. "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "Why turn me loose?"

"Because unlike you, I would gain no pleasure from besting Sherlock in his own game," Watson said. "An arrogant devil that deserves it though he may be, there is a point I would not go beyond."

Irene looked guilty. She turned away in a huff, hurrying up the steps. However, she leaned back out the train door, holding her hat on her head as the train began to move. "Doctor!"

Watson followed slowly, then at a jog. "Yes, m'lady?"

Irene smiled her most winning smile. "Take care of him."

Watson stopped, grinned. As she was whisked away by the train, he tipped his hat to her. After that, she was gone, a pale, thin wisp vanishing into the gleaming, dark metal.

_It's a little too late for you to come back  
Say it's just a mistake  
Think I'd forgive you like that  
If you thought I would wait for you  
You thought wrong_

But you're just a boy  
You don't understand  
And you don't understand, oh  
How it feels to love a girl  
Someday you wish you were a better man

You don't listen to her  
You don't care how it hurts  
Until you lose the one you wanted  
'Cause you're taking her for granted  
And everything you had got destroyed  
But you're just a boy

**10**

**Leona Lewis, "Brave" (Theme of Watson)**

Perhaps it was due to his facing death that day, but Watson found himself incensed. He got a glass of cold water and splashed it on Holmes' face. The man awoke, but with a much weaker start than he should have.

"Oh, Watson," he murmured, wiping water off his face. "Was that necessary?"

"I think it was," Watson said, arms crossed. "You were half-dead when I came in."

"You exaggerate, Doctor. I was merely--"

"I know what you were doing!" Watson snapped. He yanked Sherlock off the sofa by the arm. "Get up. For God's sake, get up!"

"Must I?" grumbled Holmes.

"YES!" Watson shouted in his ear.

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes widening. He rubbed the ringing sensation from his ear, and let Watson take charge of him. The Doctor was in no mood to be trifled with.

Watson took Sherlock to the bathroom, where he stripped off his robe and ran a hot bath for him. Sherlock tried to be amorous, but Watson would not have it. He briskly helped the man clean up, going so far as to shave him, and dressed him in a fresh suit.

"A fine outfit to wear to bed," yawned Sherlock, staring in the mirror as Watson stood behind him, brushing his hair. "All this effort just to undress me again, Doctor?"

"I will not be undressing you anytime soon," Watson said curtly. "It is early yet, Holmes, and I am willing to wager that you have not yet eaten."

"I ate—something. Earlier."

Watson finished his hair and turned the man around to face him. "You will eat again, now," he ordered. He put a tie around Sherlock's collar and began to knot it. "I can't stand another minute in this place, watching you kill yourself. We are going out for dinner tonight."

"This is a new one," Sherlock remarked. "You intend to start celebrating over dinner your lost patients now?"

Watson gave him a light slap, more of a tap, on the cheek. "No," he said with soft anger, "rather, I intend to celebrate that by some miracle you are not _one of them—_yet."

Sherlock's eyes watered, and he stared at the floor. He did not argue the matter further, knowing that there would be no point to it. Watson usually got in a dark mood when he saw death in large quantities, and today he seemed downright frantic.

_Angels lift you off the ground  
I've got shadows weighing me down  
Still you believe  
You believe in me  
I wish I could feel that way_

_I wish I did not hurt him so, _Sherlock thought in a rare moment of guilt. _I wish I could stop, but the stagnation, the boredom, it makes me want to drive myself through a wall. The world is so average, so vastly uninteresting. I cannot suffer it without some stimulation, whether artificial or not. I need it. Doesn't he see?_

Sherlock gazed up into Watson's stern eyes. _No, he sees only me, his lover, and the death that permeates the city. He sees only the heartbreak losing me would cause him. But does he not understand that we all lose each other eventually? Why fight against it?_

_'Because,' he told me once, 'that is what humans do.'_

_You can trust so easily  
I can't give you all of me  
Stay holding on  
When you should be gone  
I wish I was that brave_

Sherlock touched the man's hand. "Doctor, I . . . I do not intend to kill myself."

"No one ever does," Watson said, taking his hand away, "yet they always find some stupid way to do so. Come."

Watson brought him along, and they left Baker Street. The two had nothing to say to one another throughout the cab ride to the restaurant, and little to say over dinner. Sherlock had, it turned out, forgotten the need for sustenance, and devoured his meal, ordering a second helping of everything.

"There, you see?" Watson said. "You _had _been starving yourself."

"I simply forgot a meal, or two."

"You must take better care of yourself, Sherlock."

"But you do such a fine job of taking care of me, Doctor."

"I try, but you do not allow me," Watson said. "All I end up doing is forgiving you time and again, cleaning up after you."

"Is that not what taking care of a person entails, when you come right down to it?"

"No, it is not!" Watson slammed his fist down on the table. Upon garnering the disapproving glances of the other diners, he removed it, and lowered his voice. "I serve you, nothing more."

"I thought you loved me."

_You go to war for love like a soldier  
I wanna run away  
You're never scared to walk through the fire  
I wish I had your faith  
I turned away  
Knowing my heart could break  
I'm so afraid to lay down my armor  
I'm not brave  
I'm not brave_

Watson sighed. "Of course I love you," he said impatiently. "This is _about _that love, Sherlock."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Watson said firmly. "It is." He leaned closer to the table, to speak more intimately with Holmes. "I wish to _live _the rest of my life with you, love, not spend the rest of my life dying slowly with you. We are not yet old, but neither are we so young anymore. The less time we have in this world together, the more precious becomes what is left of it."

Sherlock set down his utensils, looked at Watson. "You are saying you want to marry me?"

"Don't be cynical," Watson snapped. "I am serious, Sherlock. Listen to me."

Though he remained bemused, Sherlock assured him, "I am listening to you, Watson."

"Anyway, the church and the law might not have us, but we are beyond marriage," Watson said with a small smile. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I would."

"Then you see how precious you are to me," Watson said gently. "You know how much I love you, how much I care for you. I know that in your way, you also love me. After all these years of my respect for your lifestyle, can you not even consider doing this one thing for me now that I finally ask it?"

"You have been asking it all along," Sherlock accused. "You make no secret of your disapproval, and I do allow you to punish me, don't I? No matter how unpleasant that has been."

"I punish you, you cry, and I forgive you-- And what comes of that? Absolutely nothing," Watson said, shaking his head. "Punishing you is the only way I keep from going mad with you. But I do not wish to do so tonight. I want to talk to you, man to man, and make you see the sense of my advice."

Sherlock looked sullen. Watson's concern always put him on the brink of self-doubt, which was a hard place for an unapologetic man to be. He defended his life and choices violently, his pride never allowing him to admit to a mistake.

_Keep my shield up constantly  
Stop these arrows piercing me  
Now I don't know how  
How to put it down (These are right I think)  
I wish I was that brave_

"Watson, you are in a morbid mood, and it is no wonder why," Sherlock said. "But look at it this way, there is danger in every aspect of life. Much of the cases we have worked together have been infinitely more harmful."

"But I can be there to protect you in those," Watson said softly. "How can I protect your body from poison flowing inside it? Hm?"

"Well--"

"How can I protect you from the torment of your mind?"

Sherlock's lips tightened, and he stared at his food.

"Please listen to me in this," begged Watson. "Just this once, forget your damned pride and admit to your wrongfulness. You don't even have to say a thing out loud, no apologies or tears, only _listen _to me."

Sherlock sniffed, shook his head. He leaned an elbow on the table, his face upon a hand, and stared at Watson. Why was it so difficult? Why could he not do what everyone else did and submit to another's will? Why could he not even do it when he knew the man was right? Why did he hurt his lover, the most important man in the world to him, this way?

"I am sorry, Watson," he said coldly, sitting up straight as dessert was served between them. "You are trying to change me, and I simply do not think you have the right."

"I love you," Watson said fiercely, once the waiters were gone. "Does that not give me the right?"

_You go to war for love like a soldier  
I wanna run away  
You're never scared to walk through the fire  
I wish I had your faith  
I turned away  
Knowing my heart could break  
I'm so afraid to lay down my armor  
I'm not brave  
I'm not brave_

Silence.

"Of course not," Watson muttered ruefully. "Together in love, but never in mind. How could the great Sherlock Holmes ever take advice from such a mediocre intelligence as mine?"

"Doctor--"

"Don't!" snapped Watson. "Do not say another word."

He did not even touch the dessert, getting up and storming out. Sherlock stared after him, but did not follow. In his eyes, Watson had been the one to complicate things unnecessarily, and had upset himself over nothing. Besides, it was best to let his temper settle before anything. Sherlock had no doubt it would. After all, it always did.

_Oh I'm not, I'm not brave  
Still you believe  
You believe in me  
I wish I was that brave_

You go to war for love like a soldier  
I wanna run away  
You're never scared to walk through the fire  
I wish I had your faith  
I turned away  
Knowing my heart could break  
I'm so afraid to lay down my armor  
I'm not brave

**11**

**Jem, "Falling For You"**

Watson came in again some time later, finding Sherlock snoring softly again in bed. He looked so peaceful that Watson was tempted to leave him. _No, _he thought, _I mustn't be so soft with him._

"You liar."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, looking sleepily up at Watson. "Yes, I am."

Watson leaned over him on the bed, their faces almost brushing. "So, you want to stay in bed, do you?"

"I do." Sherlock eyed him distractedly, a sleepy smile on his face. He reached up and began untying Watson's tie. "And I have a brilliant idea."

"Yes, and what is that?"

"Why don't you--" Sherlock now began undoing buttons on Watson's shirt. "--stay with me?"

"Stay with you? In bed all day?"

"Yes." Sherlock nestled his face into Watson's neck, kissing him. "You could comfort me."

"Ha! Comfort you?" Watson echoed, though he threw himself over the man, brushing his hair off his face. "What makes you think you deserve comfort, eh?"

Sherlock kissed him. He felt Watson's arm sliding around him, their bodies moving closer. He knew he had him.

_Said there'd be no going back  
Promised myself I'd never be that sad  
Maybe that's why you've come along  
To show me, it's not always bad_

Watson groaned in defeat, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock took the tie from around his neck and blindfolded him. "Why not let me do a thing with you for a change?"

_Coz I can feel it, baby  
I feel like I'm falling for you  
But I'm scared to, let go  
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so_

Watson reached for the blindfold, but then left it. He exhaled wearily, giving up. He did not need to see Sherlock to envision the smile dawning across his face as he realized his victory, the triumph in those compelling eyes. He felt Sherlock's lips kiss his neck, his eyelashes fluttering across Watson's skin. How tender a lover he was . . .

Sherlock was sultry in the early morning hours, lazily tracing his lover's face with his fingers, smelling his skin, pressing his lips to the soft flesh. His cynicism would melt away at times like these, and his detailed mind would become fixed solely on his lover. It was a safe place to be, with one you trust. It was so perfect, so intimate, that it almost depressed him all over again. How sacred these fleeting moments. If only he could tell Watson that he _did _cherish them, that he _did _appreciate every single second of their time together. He wished his words did not cut to the bone, wished his temper did not run away with him. He wished he could keep Watson like his forever, wordless and blind, just a captive to his touch, to their mutual love.

_It's true I've become a skeptic  
How many couples really love  
Just wish I had a crystal ball  
To show me, if it's worth it all_

_What good are words? Words, sights . . . how insignificant . . . I live by them, yet I . . . I wish I could vanish into this blind emotion. Even the body becomes insubstantial in the flood of feeling. No one will ever know how much I . . . I **do **enjoy feeling . . . _

_I am not a machine, as I told him . . . all those years ago . . . _

_Coz I can feel it, baby  
I feel like I'm falling for you  
But I'm scared to, let go  
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so  
Yeah I can feel it, baby  
I feel like I'm falling for you  
But I'm scared to, let go  
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so  
_

Watson lifted a corner of the tie that was blindfolding him. "Sherlock? Are you crying?"

Sherlock lifted his face, and the tears were streaking down his face. The droplets of moisture delicately dripped onto Watson's bare skin, one, then another. Sherlock smiled quietly, and brought his lips to Watson's. They kissed, and Watson brought an arm around him.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, and that is precisely what is wrong," Sherlock said with a small laugh. He sniffled, resting his forehead against the doctor's. "Everything is perfect, as it has been all these years."

_And I've got to be sure  
Coz it's been so long  
And I cannot take the pain again  
If it all goes wrong_

"Sherlock?"

"Never mind," Sherlock said shortly. He wiped his eyes, and leaned his head on Watson's chest. "Just never mind. It isn't important."

Watson frowned briefly in puzzlement, but knew it would be pointless to question him further. Sherlock felt on whims, tumultuously, and would never use words to express his feelings. Watson kissed the top of his head, and they lay in the dawning sunlight, together.

_Coz I can feel it, baby  
I feel like I'm falling for you  
But I'm scared to, let go  
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so  
Yeah I can feel it, baby  
I feel like I'm falling for you  
But I'm scared to, let go  
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so_

I want you so much  
I need you so much  
I want you so much  
I need you so much  
(Believe me my love  
Believe me my love) 

**12**

**Evanescence, "Whisper" (Theme of Lord Blackwood)**

As they approached the decrepit building and the smell of death entered his nostrils, Watson felt his amusement vanish. A chill ran through his blood, and he felt they were on the verge of misfortune and evil tidings. Entering the building, he gripped more tightly to Holmes.

Sherlock's eyes lit upon the crime scene, darting from detail to detail to detail. He broke free of Watson's grasp immediately, rushing over to the gruesome display. Watson reached out after him, but knew it would do no good. He let his hand fall, running his fingers over the warmth that lingered from the grasp.

As Sherlock rushed to the desecrated altar, Watson was struck by more ill tidings. He watched the small, dark-clothed figure of Sherlock immersed in the dim light of the lamps the police had set up, which threw off a red hue from all the paint and blood. His eyes played tricks on him, and he envisioned Sherlock swallowed up by blood, blood . . .

_Catch me as I fall  
Say you're here and it's all over now  
Speaking to the atmosphere  
No one's here and I fall into myself  
This truth drives me  
Into madness  
I know I can stop the pain  
If I will it all away_

Watson blinked, rubbed his eyes. The vision did not leave him. He recognized the feeling, as well; it was the same feeling that had caused him such trepidation and, then, fury yesterday.

_When I walked in and saw him asleep on the sofa, _Watson recalled bitterly, _I envisioned him dead there. That was why I beat him so fiercely. That is why I feel my hands shaking right now. I know not how or why, or whether I can stop it, but . . . he is on a course for death._

Watson felt his eyes water, and he had to lean a hand on a pew for support. _Don't you see it, Holmes? I know you don't trust instinct or feeling, but . . . can't you __**feel **__it? Must you be so stubborn and deny it?_

Watson finally approached the scene of the murder. He wrinkled his nose at the sight and the smell. It was a tableau of ungodly death, illustrated with blood and mysterious symbols. Upon the altar lay a woman, her sky blue eyes still and empty with death. Blood flowed down her white gown and her white body, sticky still waterfalls pooling in thick pools at the bottom of the altar. Her hair was a wheat color between blond and light brown, and was sprawled loose around her frame, to her waist, much of it stained crimson. She stared sightlessly to the high ceilings of the church, as if praying to a God that had not saved her. One arm hung limply down the side of the altar, and the other clutched the knife that she had plunged into her own heart.

_Don't turn away  
(Don't give in to the pain)  
Don't try to hide  
(Though they're screaming your name)  
Don't close your eyes  
(God knows what lies behind them)  
Don't turn out the light  
(Never sleep never die)_

Sherlock's pale hand shooting out to the knife startled Watson so much that he stumbled back. Sherlock glanced at him, but was too concerned with his investigation to see if he was all right. He removed the woman's hand, his eyes brisking over her fingers, palm, and nails, and then bent very close to examine the blade. After a moment, he asked Lestrade, "Do you mind?"

Lestrade shook his head. He turned to Watson and asked if he was all right. Watson shakily replied that he was. Inside, he felt a cold, steady fury tightening his chest, a hatred for the butcher responsible for the scene.

Sherlock removed the knife carefully, holding it by the tip and end with a handkerchief. He turned it this way and that, set it down, looked at it with a magnifying glass. He then turned the glass on the wound in the girl's chest, but that only briefly.

Unable to remain quiet, Watson seethed, "What kind of monster--"

"Doctor, please," Sherlock chided, not looking back at him. He buzzed about the body a few minutes longer. Then, "Would you mind examining the eyes and mouth."

Watson bristled. It had not been a request. Nonetheless, he obeyed, unable to think of much else to do. He always disliked murder, but the brutality of this one made him especially outraged.

"An innocent girl," he growled as he examined her, "completely destroyed at random, by chance."

"Chosen for her reputation of chastity and good, according to the police," Sherlock said. For once, his matter-of-fact demeanor was tinged with displeasure. He shared a look of mutual distaste with Watson, and then moved on.

"She appears to have had a seizure, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

"Yes," Watson said distractedly. He gently shut the young woman's eyes. No need to pray anymore. Forgetting whether he had answered or not, he repeated, "Yes."

"It is common to use a drug to induce seizure or near-seizure in these kinds of rituals," Sherlock said. "The convulsions mimic the appearance of possession, spiritual ecstasy, or whatever you like. My guess is this woman was guided by the commanding voice of the leader, superstition, fear, and, most strongly, pain: that is normally the recipe, tried and true, for inducing ritual suicide. Or 'sacrifice', if you would."

Again, Watson burst out, "What kind of devil--"

"Not a devil," Sherlock said softly, "only a man. Man is the only beast worth fearing, Doctor."

. . . .

_I'm frightened by what I see  
But somehow I know  
That there's much more to come  
Immobilized by my fear  
And soon to be  
Blinded by tears  
I can stop the pain  
If I will it all away_

. . . .

They were distracted from the curls of smoke raising from within it by a resounding slam. They whipped around, and found the doors to the mausoleum had been shut. Watson rushed to them, trying them, but Sherlock just shook his head, knowing it was useless.

"I told you it was trapped!" Watson cried, storming back to Sherlock. "I told you!"

Sherlock ignored him, looking all around the room.

"You knew, didn't you?" Watson sighed. "Why would you allow--"

"Shhh, Watson," Sherlock hushed him impatiently. He walked around the small space. "If my deduction is correct, this trap is not intended to kill us."

"_An astute observation, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."_

Watson whirled around in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. He removed his service revolver from his jacket. Sherlock stayed still, but his eyes darted around wildly.

"_I must say, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. There is something inherently fitting about the meeting of the greatest intellectual mind in the country with the land's greatest spiritual presence."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I find it more ironic than fitting, Blackwood."

"_That is 'Lord Blackwood', Mr. Holmes, a title you shall accept soon enough."_

"Yes, I'm sure," Holmes said dryly. He saw Watson still looking around for the voice, and, frustrated, grabbed him by the arm and held him in place. "The voice is being channeled through vents, and bounced around the room by the acoustics, do you see?"

"Ah, yes." Watson cleared his throat. "Of course."

"_You are cynical. A man of science, yes, Mr. Holmes?" _The voice laughed quietly, coldly. "_Ha, ha, ha. I pity you."_

"And why is that?" Sherlock asked casually, leading Watson back to the casket. He began trying to push it aside, slowly so as not to make much sound. He knew Blackwood could hear them, but not see them.

"_You are a man bankrupt of a soul, Holmes. You put all your arrogant faith in yourself, failing to see the higher powers coalescing around you. How sad that such a mind limits itself to the mundane, small world of tangibility, when there is so much more, so many things you blind yourself to."_

"Such as your great mystical talents, mm?" Sherlock went on cynically. He used the cover of his voice to scrape the casket aside further, with Watson's help.

"_Such as so many things. Gods, Devils, and the powers of those who dare take control over them. I know you believe you shall best me, as you have bested so many mortal fiends, but an empty machine such as yourself could never hope to overcome my power."_

_Fallen angels at my feet  
Whispered voices at my ear  
Death before my eyes  
Lying next to me I fear  
She beckons me  
Shall I give in  
Upon my end shall I begin  
Forsaking all I've fallen for  
I rise to meet the end_

Sherlock bristled at the word 'machine'. Watson was surprised to see that even after all this time, the label still bothered him.

"_What of your partner, Doctor Watson?"_

Watson scowled. "No Satanic power guides your hand, you monster!" he called to Blackwood. "This is nothing but butchery and cheap conjurer's tricks!"

"_Can it be you have spent too long with your dear Holmes, Doctor? Has his apathetic science-worship bereaved you of your humanity as well? Are you also without faith?"_

"I have faith, but not in a villain like you," Watson said. Sherlock tugged his sleeve, but he went on, "You are a common murderer, Blackwood! A farce!"

Sherlock sighed, arms crossed. As he had expected, there was a hidden trap door leading into the bowels of the earth beneath the false casket. He would have gone right down, if Watson were not busy with this fruitless argument.

"_A farce you say? We shall see how false my power is when it consumes you, Dr. Watson. Perhaps that will inspire a little emotion in Sherlock Holmes?"_

_Don't turn away  
(Don't give in to the pain)  
Don't try to hide  
(Though they're screaming your name)  
Don't close your eyes  
(God knows what lies behind them)  
Don't turn out the light  
(Never sleep never die)_

_Servatis a periculum (Save us from danger)  
Servatis a maleficum (Save us from evil)_

**13**

**Leona Lewis, "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" (Theme of Watson and Mary)**

_{ Hold up... hold on... don't be scared,  
You'll never change what's been and gone.  
May your smile... Shine on...  
Don't be scared,  
Your destiny may keep you warm. }_

"_I was surprised to find Mary with eyes red from crying, clad in mourning black. She allowed me in, and we sat for long moments saying nothing in the parlor. The ring was gone from her finger. God forgive me, but some vile part of me felt such refreshment over the poor man's death, whoever he was. I don't know what crazy things I had started to hope for in the hospital that day, but all those half-formed fancies returned to me then. _

"_She finally told me what I already knew, that her fiancée had died. We muddled through the sympathies and whatnot lifelessly. _

_{ Cos all of the stars have faded away,  
Just try not to worry,  
You'll see them some day.  
Take what you need,  
And be on your way,  
And stop crying your heart out. } _

"_But,' she said, brightening some, 'it is a great joy to see that you have survived, Dr. Watson.'_

"_You are too gracious, good woman,' I told her, feeling a wretch for my elation over her loss. 'It is a __cruel world indeed that takes a true man from you, only to allow a man like me to live.'_

_{ Get up... (Get Up) Come on... (Come On) why you scared? (I'm not scared)  
You'll never change what's been and gone. }_

"_What do you mean by that?' asked she. 'You are a good man, Dr. Watson. It may seem presumptuous of me, but I have been told I have a-a talent for . . . reading people.'_

"_That you may, but you are wrong about me,' I said. The whole of it was suffocating me, and I found myself speaking before I could stop. 'Oh, Mary. Mary, I--'_

"_I told her about it . . . __**all **__of it. I told her all the truths that had been crushing me for the past weeks, and even some things I had not even suspected I felt. I told her of my old desires for a family, a wife and children, and how after the war I was too frightened by death and loss to pursue them. I told her how I was both attracted to and repelled by danger and adventure. I told her how tired I was, how spent. I told her of my bond to Sherlock (and I think she saw that for what it was, though she is too proper to ever speak of such a thing), and how that kept dragging me back to his side. _

_{ Cos all of the stars have faded away,  
Just try not to worry,  
You'll see them some day.  
Take what you need,  
And be on your way,  
And stop crying your heart out. }_

"_I saw then why I had been so enraptured by her. She was all I had wanted before, before the war and before Sherlock Holmes. She was the normal, quiet world that was blasted from my grasp long ago. This lovely, graceful woman represented all I had ever longed for, all I had been unworthy of for so long._

"_And I loved her._

"_All these things, I told her. I had never spoken so honestly, never felt so raw before, not even with Holmes. I talked and talked, until there was nothing more to say. All the while, the woman listened, listened to my every word. She did not interrupt or sneer. She had no motive, no selfish agenda. She sat there and she listened, and she heard me._

"_You are not,' she said finally when I had done talking, 'a bad man.'_

"_I stared at her in disbelief. I had, admittedly, forgotten that was the way my confessions had begun. But Mary had stayed with her original point, and now she restated it factually, certainly. _

"_It is the strain of being a good man that has you distraught,' she told me. 'If you were bad, would you have so many worries? No, you would be happy so long as you were comfortable, and damn the world. __**That **__is the way of bad men, Mr. Watson. Your anguish is proof of your integrity.'_

"_It was the opinion of only one woman, but how it lifted my spirits. I felt a great weight fall from my shoulders._

"_After she said those words, we stared into one another's eyes. The feelings were so poignantly clear that I forced myself to stand. I apologized for taking so much of her time, and excused myself. She came with me to the door, and then told me that if I wished, I was welcome to see her again. Mindlessly, I assured her that I would."_

_{ When all of the stars were faded away,  
Just try not to worry,  
You'll see us some day.  
Just take what you need,  
And be on your way,  
And stop crying your heart out. }_

**14**

**Fauxliage, "Without You"**

_You say you'll wait for something better  
You're gonna rest for a while  
I bet you'd bet it all to get her  
All the world for a bitter smile _

"You wish to tell me something."

Watson stood up straight, startled. "Oh, er, yes." He cleared his throat, coming into the room fully. "I did. Sherlock, you see, I don't know how to say this, but I--"

"You have been saying a lady." Pace. _Twang, twing, twang_ on the strings.

"How did you know that?"

"Who do you think you're talking to!" snapped Sherlock, unusually biting. He faced Watson, his knuckles white on the violin's handle. "I heard talk, if you must know. I am far too busy to have bothered to see for myself."

Watson was unusually calm in the face of this arrogant remark. Sherlock felt physically ill at the mere sight of him. How could he be so calm when he was about to ruin Sherlock's whole world? It threw doubts on whether he had ever loved Sherlock at all.

_If you're staying, I should leave  
Get my things and I'll be gone tomorrow  
If you're leaving, I will stay  
Thank you for the heart you let me borrow _

"Her name is Mary Morstan," Watson said slowly. "I met her--"

He explained the events Sherlock had not seen at the chapel. Sherlock was glum, wishing he had been more attentive that night. A darker part of his dark mind wished Blackwood had shot Mary while he was there. Of all the 'innocent women' being slain, why had she not been one of them?

"I am so sorry, Sherlock--" Watson took the man by the shoulders, ending his pace. "--that I have been doing such a thing behind your back. But you've been so troubled by this case, and I . . . I didn't know why I was doing it, or what would come of it."

"And now you know," Sherlock murmured. "Now you know what has come of it, which is why you are telling me. You have chosen between us."

"I have."

Sherlock pushed past him. "You have chosen her, and that is what you've come in here to tell me," he said darkly, his eyes moistening. "That you love-- You love--" He felt the wind knocked from his chest by the misery, and he smashed the violin into a table. "That you love _her_!" he spat the word as if it were a curse. "That you're going to marry _her_! That you-- you-- you're leaving, leaving me!"

. . . .

_What did I ever say to send you  
What have I ever done but love you  
I wonder what I'll do without you _

. . . .

"Why are you so sullen?" Watson asked. "Isn't that what you wanted? I am asking you, Holmes, to let me choose you--"

"No, you're asking me to take the choice out of your hands," Sherlock said ruefully. He stopped, facing Watson. "You say you will choose me if I do the impossible for you, thus freeing yourself of the blame."

"What I am asking is perfectly reasonable," Watson argued. "All I've done for you, all I've given up and will give up for you . . . and you would refuse this one small thing?"

"You ask me to give up my home!"

"I ask to _be _your home!" Watson shouted. "You say you love me as much as I love you. Well, I would follow you anywhere in Heaven or Earth, to Hell if you'd wish, and be home so long as it was by your side. Is being by _my _side not enough for you, Holmes?"

Sherlock felt trapped by his own selfishness, and it only furthered his outrage. _No, it is __**not **__enough. He knows that. He knows it! Why does he force me to admit it? Why does he give me all this damned guilt?_

"You know I can't leave London," Sherlock said heatedly. "You knew what my answer would be! You're a coward!"

"I'm _human_ is what I am!" Watson cried. "Believe it or not, so are you. And this city has consumed me and left me empty. I would have let myself die that night, if I did not have you to live for. So let me live _for _you, Holmes, and live for me. Please. Let me have a future with you."

"There IS NO FUTURE!" Sherlock bellowed furiously. "The future is conjecture and baseless theory! It is _nothing_! You've become a slave to the fear of it!"

"And you a slave to denouncing it!"

"If you want the woman, then _say it_!" Sherlock yelled, shaking Watson by the front of his shirt. "Just say you've chosen her, and forget the games and excuses!"

"I don't _want _her, I want you!"

"You're lying!" Sherlock screamed. "Admit it!"

"I'm not lying, Holmes!"

"ADMIT IT!"

. . . .

_She'll never make you a believer  
I hope you're saving all your tears  
You've gotta have so much to keep her  
Cry a river in a hundred years _

. . . .

"Life is not a game, Sherlock!" Watson managed to pin Sherlock down on the floor, straddling him. "You can't always play it for fun!"

Sherlock struggled, but Watson's hands were around his neck, threatening to choke him. "Mmph."

"You can't . . . "

Watson's face softened. He rushed into a frenzied, sloppy kiss. Sherlock grasped at him, wishing they could forget it all in mindless sex.

"Sherlock," sighed Watson. He climbed off the man, pulled him against his chest. "Damn you, Sherlock. Do you even love me at all?"

"I do. You know I do."

"Then why am I not enough, Sherlock?" Watson tipped Sherlock's face towards his own by the chin. "Why is being with me not enough?"

_If you're staying, I should leave  
Get my things and I'll be gone tomorrow  
If you're leaving, I will stay  
Thank you for the heart you let me borrow _

Sherlock rested his face against his shoulder, shutting his eyes briefly. In truth, he felt the same exhaustion as Watson. He knew what it was to be burnt out physically, but his mind demanded more exertion, more challenge, more, more, ever more . . .

"You know what I need from this world, the only thing I have use for," Sherlock said quietly. "I must work."

"Your work does not have to be based here," Watson pointed out. "You can correspond--"

"It isn't the same."

"So, it is not only the intellectual challenge, as you claim," Watson surmised. "You are addicted to the excitement, the danger, as well, aren't you?"

Sherlock exhaled, closing his eyes again. "No more than you are, Doctor."

"But I _am _a doctor, after all," Watson said quietly. "I know my limits, and I know when to get out. The more you cling to your adventures, the more I cling to the dream of a normal life, and the two cannot be reconciled."

Still with his eyes closed, Sherlock argued, "That is not true. You can stay with me, and not be a part of my cases."

_What did I ever say to send you  
What have I ever done but love you  
I wonder what I'll do without you _

"The way I fret about you?" Watson laughed sadly. He smoothed Sherlock's hair, kissing the top of his head. "No, no, dear Holmes, I could never do that. I would always wonder, always worry, and ultimately go running after you."

"I wouldn't tell you about my cases, then."

"I would still have to stand by and watch you poison yourself slowly," Watson said. "The strain of the cases, the fighting on the streets, the drugs-- I can't, Sherlock. I simply cannot watch you kill yourself slowly."

"I'll be discrete."

"No. No, if I am ever going to be free of my anguish over you, the separation . . . has to be total." Watson sat Holmes up, prodded him into opening his eyes. "It has to be complete."

_If you're staying, I should leave  
Thank you for the heart you let me borrow_

What did I ever say to send you  
What have I ever done but love you  
I wonder what I'll do without you

I'll never make you my believer  
I'll never hear you say the words

If you're staying, I should go  
Get my things and I'll be gone tomorrow  
If you're leaving, go before I stay  
Thank you for the heart you let me borrow 

**15**

**Leona Lewis ft. One Republic, "Lost Then Found" (Theme of Fighting the Breakup)**

_Staring at tears on the pages  
Of letters that I never could've write  
Now I know love isn't painless,  
But it's worth the risk,  
It's worth the fight  
Playing it over and over  
I wish that I could turn back time, baby  
We were wrong, but we could be right_

"Don't," he said mechanically. "Sherlock." He knelt down, put a hand to Sherlock's cheek. "You're too good for this."

"I would . . . I would suffer any indignity," Sherlock said. "You like to humiliate me, so go on. Do whatever you wish to me."

"It was never about humiliating you . . . much. I wanted to help you, but you never--" Watson stood. "No. I'm not going to go over this again. I'm through. This is all I have, Holmes. I don't _have _anything left for you."

"But you have for this Mary," scowled Sherlock, getting to his feet. "You're a fool, Watson!"

"You've always known I'm a fool, Sherlock," Watson said quietly. He put on his jacket, hat. "You're only angry that I am no longer _your _fool."

He turned and started for the door.

"You'll never love her the way you love me!" Sherlock shouted after him.

"No, I won't," Watson said, opening the door. "Thank God."

_Why do we say things we can't take back  
Why do we miss what we never had  
Both of us fell to the ground  
The love was so lost, it couldn't be found  
Why do you tend to forget whose vain  
I'm tired of crying out at the sound of your name  
Why don't we turn this around, love ain't the enemy  
Don't you want to be lost then found  
Lost then found, lost then found  
Love ain't the enemy  
We could be lost then found_

With a mournful glance at Holmes, the man then exited. Sherlock staggered a few steps towards the door, before falling to his knees. His mind, his preciously brilliant mind, was shot. His thoughts were a jumble of old words, more feelings than cohesive thoughts. Watson's voice echoed in his mind, all his promises, his tender whisperings of love . . . the scoldings, the lectures . . . the compliments, the insults, the doubts and the impressions . . .

_Empty glasses on tables, echoes fill these rooms  
The memories go where we go,  
There like the suitcase that you never lose  
If the good lords eyes upon me  
I swear to make things right  
Whatever we lost, I know we can find_

Sherlock wondered when he had rolled onto his back, and how long he had been staring at the ceiling. His mind was so blank that it was almost a relief, but the incessant pounding remained. Gone, gone, gone . . .

_Why do we say things we can't take back  
Why do we miss what we never had  
Both of us fell to the ground  
The love was so lost, it couldn't be found  
Why do you tend to forget whose vain  
I'm tired of crying out at the sound of your name  
Why don't we turn this around, love ain't the enemy  
Don't you want to be lost then found_

No words can come without  
Can't stop the rain, I wish you could take it back  
But it's too late, it's too late

_I am alone._

Sherlock blinked.

_For the first time since I was little more than a youth, I am truly, utterly alone._

Sherlock sat up, crawled over to the door. No, no, going after him would do no good. He could find him, of course, he could find anyone, but he could not _bring him back_. It was the farewell he had always known would come, the final goodbye he had dreaded for years. Why was it so hard to accept?

_Because there is no logic in emotion._

Sherlock hugged his knees by the door, and he a loud, bursting sob escaped his lips. He sounded as if he had been struck. He grasped at his hair, rubbed his face, but ultimately crumbled.

_There is no sense to love._

Sherlock banged his fists against his forehead, bawling more bitterly than he had in years. He hated Watson. He wished he had never met him. Why had he let him in? Damn it, WHY! It was stupid, so insanely stupid to fall prey to something as common, as dirty, as delusional as love. He was better than that.

_No, I'm not. _

_I'm not._

Sherlock hobbled to his feet, pausing as the pain held him in its grips, tightening his chest, shortening his breathing. An agonized wail escaped him, but it then turned to a furious shout. He hurled the coat rack beside him across the room, and followed it, bringing furniture down with him.

_Gone!_

Sherlock blamed the cases. He blamed his damned genius. He blamed his parents, his blood, his madness, his brilliance, and the entire world. He blamed Blackwood, and Mary. He blamed and cursed and shouted at it all.

"What good is any of it!" he shouted, smashing the violin again. "What good! If I am alone."

_Why do we say things we can't take back  
Why do we miss what we never had  
Both of us fell to the ground  
The love was so lost, it couldn't be found  
Why do you tend to forget whose vain  
I'm tired of crying out at the sound of your name  
Why don't we turn this around, love ain't the enemy  
Don't you want to be lost then found  
Lost then found, lost then found  
Love ain't the enemy  
We could be lost then found_

The words crumbled him again, and he fell to the floor crying. In the ruins of the already-messy room, Sherlock felt very small and insignificant suddenly. It was easy to forget just how isolated he was when Watson was with him, and now the cognizance of it seized him. His mind held him away from them all, as if he were an aberration rather than one gifted. Perhaps, such a 'gift' was merely another form of aberration. Perhaps he was no better than the circus freaks, or the mad.

Sherlock was hugging his knees, the broken violin in his arms. His fingers unconsciously plucked at the strings, producing off-kilter twangs. His eyes were glazed, stunned rather than thoughtful.

Through the haze of sorrow, Sherlock's mind began to function again, slowly. It felt rusty, and throbbed as if damaged internally somehow. Still, he began to think of the case, of the danger, of Watson's words: "_I would always wonder, always worry, and ultimately go running after you."_

Sherlock sniffled, wiped a sleeve across his nose. That was it, wasn't it? Watson _would _always care, that much was a given. The case was dragging on, three murders now, and there was plenty of danger to be had yet.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was thrust into denial. He was vaguely aware of it, but pushed what small protests his mind could muster away. If Watson could be lured back into the case, if he could be reminded of his love of adventure, perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Sherlock clung to this thought desperately, pitifully, he knew. What choice did he have? He had been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it was upon him, he found himself unready. _No, _he told himself stubbornly. _No, not yet. Not like this. Not to this Mary woman. I won't let him. I'll bring him back. He always, __**always **__comes back._

_I will bring him back to me._

_Why do we say things we can't take back  
Why do we miss what we never had  
Both of us fell to the ground  
The love was so lost, it couldn't be found  
Why do you tend to forget whose vain  
I'm tired of crying out at the sound of your name  
Why don't we turn this around, love ain't the enemy  
Don't you want to be lost then found  
Lost then found, lost then found  
Love ain't the enemy  
We could be lost then found_

No words can come without  
Can't stop the rain, (Lost then found)  
I wish you could take it back (Lost then found)  
But it's too late, it's too late

We could be lost then found...

**Post-Film Epilogue**

**Sleepthief, "You Did A Good Thing" (Theme of The Engagement Ring)**

_She was your childhood friend  
All of your heart you gave her  
And though the times have changed her  
She'll always be home_

(Chorus)

Losing yourself, you did a good thing  
Truth never hurt, you did a good thing  
In spite of yourself, you did a good thing  
Truth will be told, you did a good thing

I'm still here

She was your childhood sweetheart  
(so understand)  
All of this trouble you feel  
(time can't take her from you)  
The time won't take her from you  
She'll always be home

(Repeat Chorus)

You did a good, good thing

And I'll miss you for the longest time  
Our lovely view was the best I've known  
Tears on my face have fallen so  
So long there can be no harder way

_**~ Fin ~**_


End file.
